I step out of the house’s afternoon shadow, hands on my hips, dust rising beneath my boots. She went out a window to avoid the front door … and me.
“Don’t let me keep you.”
I deliver it slow. Ironic.
She leans back on her heels like I’ve just slapped her.
Folding my arms over my chest, I narrow my eyes. “See, the thing is, it’s easier to protect you if I know where you’re at.”
Her cheeks flush.
“And this is my first gig. I’d like to keep my job.”
Her breath stutters. “I didn’t think about that.”
I wait, not needing to crowd words into the space between us.
“It’s just…” Her eyes drop to the ground. She studies the rust-colored dirt punctuated by bluestem grass like it holds all the answers.
“Mia, talk to me.” The words come out more forcefully than I mean them to.
Her expression cracks, anger rushing in. “But Ididtalk to you. Told you about Edwin. The guardianship.” Her face is as red as the earth beneath her feet as her voice gains steam. “And you had nothing to say. Like usual.”
“Only speak when my words hold power.”
She bites her bottom lip, forehead creasing. God, she’s beautiful when she’s angry—face radiating passion, heat pouring off her body. A force to be reckoned with.
“What are you staring at?” she asks breathlessly.
“You,” I answer before my brain has time to catch up. My body’s a live wire—awake, hungry.
Stop it, Holt.
“You look at me like you see the real person inside, not the celebrity everyone wants me to be.”
I step forward. “Never much cared about fame. It’ll break you as easy as it makes you.”
“And what do you know about fame?” she asks, tilting up her chin.
I shrug, not ready for this conversation. Not sure I ever will be. I run a hand over my beard, calloused skin scratching across wiry whiskers. “I know it’ll catch back up with you … if you leave now.”
“But I can’t take this anymore.” Her voice quivers, low and raw. “I can call an Uber.”
“Can’t take what?”
“Can’t take being out of control. Helpless. If I don’t run now, I may never get this chance again.”
“True,” I say, slow and easy.
“God, you’re frustrating to talk to. Do you know that?”
“Been told that a time or two.”
She shifts her feet, raising a cloud of scarlet dust motes that float and linger around her—kissing her blushing skin, dancing over her curves. My throat tightens, body aching, though I order it to stop.
“What if running means they still control you?”
“You know who you remind me of? My therapist. Never saying much of anything, though you still charge by the hour.”
